


To Touch the Sea

by foldierdias



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 05:22:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30050541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foldierdias/pseuds/foldierdias
Summary: The day, as most days, starts with a simmering sense of quiet resentment. Dean wakes up, rolls away, grabs the gun from under his pillow and makes his way to the bathroom. The bathroom door slams shut, waking Cas, who groggily opens one eye, takes one look outside (another gray day), and turns his gaze to the emptiness at his side, a fresh outline of the man who had slept beside him, leaving no reminder of the night that preceded aside from a few strands of hair and a drool stain on the flattened pillow.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	To Touch the Sea

The day, as most days, starts with a simmering sense of quiet resentment. Dean wakes up, rolls away, grabs the gun from under his pillow and makes his way to the bathroom. The bathroom door slams shut, waking Cas, who groggily opens one eye, takes one look outside (another gray day), and turns his gaze to the emptiness at his side, a fresh outline of the man who had slept beside him, leaving no reminder of the night that preceded aside from a few strands of hair and a drool stain on the flattened pillow. 

He wondered if at one point he would have been disgusted at the all too viceral reminder of Dean’s humanity: the early morning stench of abysmal sex and sweat, mingled with the staleness of half-empty beer cans that never seem to desert the room, as any other angel would be. But when had he been like any other angel. 

A small part of him wants to make his way to the bathroom, curl his arms around the man, and squeeze quietly and perhaps painfully, all the rage and sadness from him. All searing light, he would pluck that rotting heart that nestled so deeply inside Dean, and crack it open, burning off every broken vessel, and every decayed moral, replacing it with the fresh spring hope he had once known. Of course, Castiel had none of that power now, and it would simply come off as a pathetic attempt at affection.

Affection. When the virus had first started spreading, there was a fear that coated every waking moment. The fear was a thick oozing thing, spilling over into anger, then sadness, then hopelessness, and then as all things Dean Winchester, an emboldened spirit. They worked together, he, Sam and Cas, and strategized on how to save entire small towns, create makeshift armies, and forge weapons and bullets from leftover tool parts. Humanity’s need to save itself at the cost of anything never ceased to surprise Cas, but of all the men and women that had lighted their doorstep, Dean outshone each and every one of them in his spirit, his tact and awareness of what needs to be to keep not a few people, but everyone safe and alive. Sometimes, in his moments of brilliance, he would gently place his hands on Cas’s shoulder, affectionate, and look over for reassurance, and Cas would nod seriously, and whatever plan had been decided, received it’s final stamp of approval. 

It was the way he felt important, of use. And what was he good for, if not to be indispensable to man? But grace is a funny thing, and it dims and dims when you have been down in the dirt too long, until Castiel would have days when he could not even make his way out of bed, much less out the door and hunting Croats. A rotating list of trusted ones would take Cas’s place, then, but Dean would still glance over the table to Cas’s frame against the door, and look for approval. Eventually, Cas stopped meeting his gaze. 

Then, Sam died. Everyone knew he had not actually died, but it felt much easier to dress it that way, in funeral clothes and a cold tomb, than to address the fact that he said yes. Yes to Lucifer, yes to the world’s end, yes to the dismemberment of that already strained familial bond. They had known for days that something was up with Sam, and in Detroit their worst fear was realized, living in a flash-hot, white suit. It had also been the first night Castiel and Dean had slept together.  
Now, Cas hears the bathroom door creak open and Dean barks something out the window to a passerby. The camp was already buzzing with noise, and all he wanted to do was sink into the midst of the bed, dissolving.  
“You comin’ to breakfast?” Dean was tying his boots, gruff-voiced and commanding.  
“Yessir.” Dean looked up and arched an eyebrow. “Don’t start now, ok? We got work to do.”  
“We always have work to do.” Cas would not meet his gaze. It was much easier to do so in the dark, and not when a pale and sickly light made its way into the cabin, a gasp of a dying God.  
“Well, you certainly don’t.” And with that, Dean slammed the door to the cabin, footsteps fading.  
He knew what Dean was referring to. 

When he had recovered, from what humans would liken to a depressive episode, and what he would liken to a sinkhole the size of Canada opening up over his proverbial chest, Cas had spent his days meandering. This meant fumbling through his days going on food hunts, smoking a shit-ton of awful weed, taking care of the kids in the camp with some of the young mothers. This taking-care-of-sickly-children gig was fulfilling, and it reminded him of himself. It also meant that some of the mothers would find themselves at the door of his cabin, smiling in pity, and sometimes in lust. 

Soon, a steady group of women would make their way towards Castiel’s cabin, with its tinkering windchimes that Cas had picked up from desecrated front porches, all shattered windows and bloodied footsteps, and carefully pieced together, as they reminded him of the sea, a gale and some fauna found on an island off the South Wale coast. They would smoke his shitty weed, and unfold their woes, and Cas would listen, because they had no else left who would. Sometimes, he would lay with them, and close his eyes and imagine the sea, green palm leaves bending over to meet the water and green eyes shimmering just under its surface.  
To Dean, it was a sign of his sickness, his flawed morale, and if he cared to admit it, unfaithfulness. But he had never asked him to be his anything, so there was nothing to bring up.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


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